Inventing the (Religious) Wheel

For a lot of us, Jewish holidays are about cobbling together ritual, tradition, and history… with contemporary lives that don’t fit the Jewish tradition in obvious ways.    So we make things up as we go. We write our own haggadah, or siddur.  We invent vegetarian versions of holiday foods.  We re-imagine…

This kind of invention can be a special and wonderful experience, or it can be a difficult experience.  It can teach us to appreciate our own creative resourcefulness, or it can act as a reminder that we live our lives in the margins of a religious community.  It can yield new texts, new rituals, new interpretations…

Or it can end in tears.

This morning I wanted to share a story excerpt with you (full disclosure, the author is a friend of mine, and I had something to do with its creation) that explores Passover as a series of such cobbled-together moments. Passover as invention.  Passover as a time of connection, and also disappointment.

Which is something I appreciate.  Having spent my share of Jewish holidays AVOIDING the holidays… because I was afraid of trying to celebrate… and getting it worong.

A lesson:  Getting it “wrong” is okay.  Just so you find a way to celebrate that is meaningful for you.  Make a memory, however rough and dirty…. it’s always better than eating cold take-out alone in your dorm room.

Via KtB, a portion of  Four Tables, excerpted from a longer essay, A Lesson in the Shape of Your Body:

I've been at work all day, and I haven't stopped to eat. The Xeroxed pamphlets at each plate are of my own design. The guests are coming in, lingering to smoke on the back porch, clustering in the living room with glasses of wine. Someone starts passing a joint, probably Best Friend Ben, who is set to perform an art-rock rendition of the Exodus later that evening. The instruments are waiting in the bedroom. I let the smoke fill my lungs until they twitch, and then I blow it out in a long, thick stream. I tell my boyfriend Ben to help get everyone to the table.

I'm at the head of the table, in my reclining chair, with the plants and the window behind me; Ben and Ben are at the foot. I like seeing their faces. I feel warm. Between me and the Bens are almost twenty guests. My friend Leon is here because he can sing the Hebrew: I want my Seder to be full of music. Around the table one woman refuses to join in the reading. I'm angry; I think she shouldn't have come. I want my Seder to be a new and real community, just as college has been. I still think that my willpower is the only necessary thing.

Leon sings the blessing: the first cup of wine. I drain it. Ben and Ben are dark and light spots very far away. The plants hover above me like desert palms. The second glass is way past too much. The table swims now, and I let the ceremony go on until its time to tell the story of how Moses led the Jews out of Egypt. Cue the music — the band sets up.  I excuse myself in a voice that sounds low and muddy to my ears. I feel my hips lightly swaying, miraculously avoiding the obstacle course of chairs and elbows and amps and coiled electrical cable. I am very concentrated on not losing control. In the bathroom I watch my burgundy-colored vomit paint the sides of the bowl. The tile floor is cool and seems to stop me from spinning. Electric exodus splits the air, surges past me.